


drugged

by Randomfandoms389



Series: D for... [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: All consensual don't worry, Double Penetration, Drugged Sex, FrUSUK, M/M, Multi, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: Arthur finally goes slack, slumping sideways onto France’s shoulder with a faint sigh. His lashes barely flutter when America gets up and rounds the table to cup his face.“Al..fred?”He presses a kiss to England’s forehead. “Yeah, babe. Go to sleep.”England has a particular request. America and France decide to indulge him.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), America/England/France (Hetalia)
Series: D for... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910851
Comments: 5
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic I dug out of my folder since I didn't have time to write again this week ┐(´∇｀)┌  
> This one's from the time I honestly couldn't find more good usuk smut and wandered into frukus instead.

It’s done quickly before he has a chance to lose his nerve. England was distracted, yelling and fending off France’s good-natured advances and attempts to steal his toast and he either doesn't notice or pretends not to see Alfred tipping the contents of a tiny vial into his teacup and leaning back in his seat with a - hopefully - totally normal smile as Francis manages to land a peck on Arthur’s cheek but fails to get an extra serving of breakfast. 

They're all cramped together at the kitchen table in Francis’s tiny Parisian apartment, and even though Arthur likes to complain about _damned frogs being too bloody cheap to get a proper house_ , he’s never seemed very bothered bumping elbows with France in the bathroom or sitting with his feet tangled with America’s under the table. That last bit is why Alfred’s doing his best not to kick or wriggle about anxiously as they - or well, he and Francis - wait for the drug to take effect because this was _supposed_ to be a surprise (well, as much of a surprise as it could be when it was England’s idea in the first place) and he didn't want to ruin it.

It was slow-acting, England had told them, arms crossed and the barest hint of a blush on his pale cheeks, but watching him eat and sip his tea while flipping through the papers (an actual newspaper, god, he was _such_ an old man) was still nerve-wracking and France has to do most of the work distracting him; bad jokes and innuendo and quick kisses over the table, bits of normalcy that helped the butterflies in America’s stomach settle a little too. 

They come back with a vengeance when he notices England’s eyes going a little glassy though, pausing with his cup halfway to his mouth as he sways in his seat, unsteady. France took care of that too; slipping the cup from unresisting hands and setting it aside before it could make a mess. 

Then they wait some more, wait and watch until Arthur finally goes slack, slumping sideways onto France’s shoulder with a faint sigh. His lashes barely flutter when America gets up and rounds the table to cup his face. 

“Al..fred?” Soft and slurred and sweet and America hadn't been too sure about this before but fuck. He _really_ shouldn't feel arousal hit his gut like a sucker punch, but the look in Francis’ eyes is positively predatory as he curves a hand around England’s neck, so he figures that at least he’s in good company. 

He presses a kiss to England’s forehead. “Yeah, babe. Go to sleep.”

* * *

Awareness returns to him in fragments. It’s a slow process- sluggish even, which seemed appropriate. England feels sluggish too, and his head is spinning a little. That’s all right though. Everything’s dim and vaguely blurry but England hasn't felt this relaxed in years. Decades. Maybe centuries. It’s nice. Very pleasant. He can hear voices, two very familiar ones, having a hushed conversation over his head, but is simply too comfortable to bother investigating. He just listens with half an ear, barely comprehending the meaning of the words that do make it past the fog in his head. 

A hissed breath. _“God, when did he even -”_

Someone laughs, soft and low. _“- impatient, aren't we, Alfred?” “‘s not my fault that I- I mean, he’s right there and_ naked _and_ you're _naked and I’m just- I can't help it-” “Shh, darling, it was hardly a complaint-”_

And finally-

_“Think he’s waking up?” “Let us find out.”_

There's a hand on his chin, tipping his head back for a pair of soft lips to settle over his own. It’s chaste and undemanding, but Arthur makes a vague sound of protest anyway, too warm and sleepy to want to be disturbed. He’s half-sprawled on something soft and cushiony, can feel the rasp of fabric against his bare legs and arse when he shifts, but he’s leaning backwards on something warmer and decidedly less soft. Something. Someone. Someone with a broad, firm chest who has their arms wrapped around his torso and who is pressing a very impressive erection into the small of his back. _America._

And France, in front of him, now deepening that kiss into something more insistent, his tongue sweeping into England’s mouth, coaxing, then retreating, catching England’s bottom lip in his teeth and biting down in a bright starburst of pain that makes him jolt. 

“Bastard,” he says reflexively, or tries to, because his tongue feels thick and his mouth isn't working right and all that comes out is a strangled sound as America reaches up and tweaks one of his nipples. _Finally,_ he thinks he hears the boy mumble and Francis laughs, but then there’s another hand on his other nipple now and why did -god, why did that _pinch and twist_ feel so damned good, he hasn't felt anything like that in - in years, he thinks. Years and years- a long, long time. So long that it’s easy to let the languid heat winding under his skin be coaxed into something bright and hot, helped along by the teasing slide of lips along his jaw, his throat and those hands - tormenting his nipples, stroking down his sides and running over his thighs - he loses track, after a minute or so, which hands belong to whom, just pants and moans and lets them roam over him as they please. 

One of them goes missing and returns shortly, smeared with something slick and cold, to probe between his thighs and England starts to spread his legs obligingly except - There was something they were doing… A game? _No… what was it now?_

 _(France looks intrigued by the idea but America - “You want us to_ drug _you?” Alfred looks scandalised. He's terribly red, which would normally be cute and still was, but he looks like he might bolt, even tangled up naked in bed with them as he is. America had always chosen the oddest things to be skittish about. England hadn't even suggested drugging_ him _, for heaven’s sake. Well, no matter. Alfred could be swayed easily enough…)_

The hand belongs to America. In accordance with a strange, fleeting whim, England bites him. Not very hard, just enough to sting where his teeth close around the base of America’s throat. He barely has to turn his head to do it, being propped up against the boy’s chest and pressed to him so smugly. It’s doubtful that he can even muster enough force to actually do damage though, with his head swimming pleasantly and his body so loose and disjointed. Nonetheless, America yelps in a manner endearing to his drug-hazed mind and Arthur can't resist. He relents, turns the bite into an open-mouthed kiss, tasting sweat and sun-warmed skin on his tongue as his boy groans, but doesn't stop even when England goes back to biting again. Those thick fingers push into him, more easily than they should, perhaps but England isn't about to care when they're filling him up so nicely. Still too gently though and he’s not in the mood for Alfred’s usual tenderness. 

Arthur bites down even harder, until he tastes copper and hears Alfred swear breathlessly. But he gets the hint and this is one of those times that one could be grateful for the boy’s ridiculous strength because _ah_. England shudders, breath hitching as those fingers curl and thrusts. Hard. _Oh yes_ , he says, or slurs, or maybe just thinks, and he's not normally so sloppy, but the fog has warmed into something that makes him feel… he feels… 

He only realises that he’s hard when a hand lands on his cock, curling around him in the way he likes and making his hips buck up, up into that grip. _Francis_ , he decides, almost deliriously, shuddering as that hand slides expertly along his shaft and its owner scrapes too-long nails lightly over sensitive skin. And now that he’s aware of it, the arousal is impossible to ignore; he _aches_ and his cock is throbbing and leaking even though it feels like they've barely begun and he should be embarrassed, at his own desperation, his lack of control. He would, normally, but well, this isn't normal and he's too far gone to care that he's rutting up to meet that hand like some inexperienced teenager, can't even bother to bite back his moans when America spreads his fingers, scissoring, and brushes against something too sweet and reactive inside him. 

_Harder_ , he wants to tell them, but then Alfred pulls his hair and bites _his_ neck and crooks those fingers, presses hard against _that_ spot, oh _right there yes-!_

And the orgasm is a bit of a surprise, but in this odd dream-like state, he supposes that it’s all right.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Alfred says, finally. 

His eyes are very wide behind his lopsided glasses and his throat bobs prettily as he swallows, but France finds himself rather transfixed by the unbridled _pleasure_ written on England’s face, in the arch of his spine as he gasps and shudders and comes messily into France’s hand. It’s quite a departure from the norm, for their prickly lover with his apparently unending stamina. 

Francis supposes that he quite likes it, how _easy_ it was to make England squirm, to have him moaning and undone with little more than teasing fingers. He was too proud, their Arthur, to beg even when they had him on his knees and biting savagely at his lip to muffle his cries. Francis lifts a hand to his own lips in thought and with a glance at a still slack-jawed America, deliberately licks the come off his fingers. (He wonders how _this_ Arthur would do.)

Alfred is still spluttering a little when France hooks a hand behind Arthur’s neck and tugs him forward, finding a pleasant lack of resistance. _(Well, pleasant, for_ now _. Their fiery little Englishman’s temperament was part of his charm, after all, and there’s little satisfaction in kissing him pliant if he isn't hissing and spitting beforehand.)_

He studies the unfocused green eyes, rubs his thumb over a flushed cheek and then lower, swiping over a plump bottom lip. England doesn't react at all except to shiver, his breath warm against Francis’ skin and lips parted as if in invitation. It didn't really count, with England drugged out of his mind, but France takes it as one anyway, slipping his thumb in to trace the straight ridge of sharp teeth and pressing down lightly on that tongue, watching as those lovely eyes fall shut and England half-sways forward. 

Tempting, but France hadn't missed the way Alfred’s eyes had darkened earlier as they lingered on pert pink nipples and the shiny, _shiny_ silver piercings currently adorning them _(a rare treat, Arthur was so good to them sometimes)_ , and so he withdraws his hand and simply guides Arthur to lie down with his head pillowed on his thigh. Alfred immediately wedges himself between Arthur’s legs and flops down atop him, earning a soft winded sound and a stunning lack of grumbled complaints, in order to properly examine his chest. 

_Ah, has Arthur never shown Alfred before? A shame he does look so very good with them…_

France watches America watch England, noting the greedy gleam of bright blue eyes and the small breath that America lets out as he lifts a hand and tentatively touches the tip of one finger to the barbell decorating England’s right nipple. The sound Arthur makes in response isn't quite a moan, per se, just the barest rasp of air past his lips as he shifts restlessly, hands lifting and promptly caught by France and pinned to the bed. No real reason, just that he thinks Arthur looks very good restrained but alas, the headboard of his bed is a single piece of smooth wood that has proven unconducive to handcuffs. 

It’s a bit of an oversight on his part, but musings on furniture could wait because that well, he’s starting to think that America might have a bit of a _thing_ for piercings and now _that_ was something that must be investigated. The boy had been staring quite intensely with wide glazed eyes, after all, and doesn't seem to plan on stopping anytime soon.

Perhaps it was the novelty? He wonders idly if Arthur could be persuaded to wear those piercings more often. “Alfred?”

“Mmhm.” 

_“Mon amour?”_

“Mm.” Still staring. France squashes a smile. He taps the boy lightly on the head and America starts, looking up in a manner akin to a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. No wonder England loved teasing him so, he was rather adorable.

“Do you like those?” He nods at the piercing that America’s just barely touching and oh, that poor, darling boy. He actually squeaks, jerking his fingers back as if they've been burnt. _And he accuses England of being repressed._

But it is always good to lead by example in the bedroom and besides, Francis has never believed in denying himself the finer things in life, so he simply reaches down himself, takes hold of one of those pretty, pretty piercings that have been tormenting him since he unbuttoned Arthur’s shirt earlier, and _twists_.

There's an immediate reaction; Arthur’s eyes fly open and he _moans_ , a sharp, strangled sound, as his back arches, that stubborn, obstinate mouth falling open. France thinks of the way Alfred’s breath had hitched so nicely, earlier when he’d come back to the bed and found him toying with their stirring lover’s nipples, those wide eyes and long fingers tightening around the bottle of lube Francis had asked him to fetch from the bathroom - and smiles.

“Watch,” he tells the boy, tugging gently on that little barbell and making England whimper. “He likes when you're rough with him - just pinch and pull, like _so_ and -” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” the subject of their attentions says with astonishing clarity. He moans again when France flicks lightly at him with a nail. 

He offers Alfred an encouraging smile, hand leaving that nipple to force Arthur’s newly freed one back to the bed. “Not too difficult, _non_? You try.”

* * *

Alfred learns quickly.

For someone so easily flustered, it was rather remarkable how _filthy_ America’s mouth could be. France admires the pair of them for a moment; America with his golden hair and tanned skin pressed up close to England, his lips to the elegant curve of prominent collarbones as his fingers dance over the coveted piercings, rolling and twisting and pinching and dragging the most delicious sounds from England’s lips, making him gasp and writhe. 

And oh, desperation does suit England so, every bit as much as his usual icy composure, his scalpel-sharp eyes and wicked smiles. Pity that he doesn't get to this point, flushed and moaning with abandon, without some chemical intervention.

In any case, it’s proving to be _quite_ the exercise in self-control, to have England’s mouth _(lax and open and shining with spit, so very tempting)_ so close to his throbbing cock. 

Another obscene cry has him gritting his teeth, as America ventures back down and learns that Arthur likes having his nipple sucked into a warm mouth and then bitten. Francis can't really see what the boy is doing down there, but Arthur’s going half-wild under him, thrashing under Alfred’s weight and digging his nails into Francis’ hands. He lets go of one and Arthur promptly buries it in Alfred’s hair, trapping him there _(as if he would ever want to leave)_. France though, fists _his_ hand in sandy blond hair, tilting Arthur’s face up so he can see every flicker of pleasure and pain that crosses it. 

And also to keep him from continuously knocking into his cock with his incessant _squirming_.

“Honestly,” he hisses finally, pulling cruelly, “It’s almost as if you _want_ me to force my cock down your throat.”

He blinks when England swallows, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he turns, as much as he can with France’s hand anchored in his hair, and it had to hurt, but France would swear that England’s smirking as he noses at his cock, smug as ever, but then he blinks and that mouth is open in a half-pleading moan as America pinches harshly at his flesh. 

If France’s voice is just a bit breathless when he lets go of Arthur’s hair to tug lightly at Alfred’s cowlick as he says _don't you feel it’s time to move on,_ neither of them points it out. But Alfred doesn't move though; his hand tightening, fingers curling slightly when they’re splayed over Arthur’s ribs. Not quite willing then, but it’s all right, Francis simply slides his leg out from under Arthur’s head, replacing it with a convenient pillow before he joins the boy between those spread legs. Alfred makes room easily enough; he shuffles sideways to straddle England’s right thigh so France can sit, groping blindly for the bottle of lube _(too eager, slow down, slow_ down _, for goodness’ sake)._

His hands aren't very steady, but that doesn't matter; he drags England’s other leg up, hooks it over his shoulder and runs his hands over pale skin, rubs and kneads at taut muscle until they stop trembling. His hands, that is, not England. England, who’s writhing as America trails wet kisses over his chest, knuckles white where he’s gripping the pillow as if it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Francis lets out a breath. _Slow_ , he reminds himself, and takes his time with the lube, warms it between his palms and coats his fingers thoroughly before reaching between those lovely thighs to circle Arthur’s entrance teasingly. He pushes, gentle, and hears the hitch in Arthur’s moan, so he turns the insinuation of his fingers into a demand and forces another from his throat, another moan just for him. 

Alfred’s turned his head curiously, his cheek to the rapid rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, and Francis doesn't have the presence of mind to ask where his glasses have disappeared off to when America angles himself such that he can suckle at a rosy nipple and watch at the same time, and England seizes so violently that he almost knocks them all off the bed. 

Alfred’s laughing breathlessly as he pins down their thrashing lover and it’s Francis’ turn to watch again, greedily, as the boy goes back to his self-appointed task with admirable enthusiasm.

He doesn't bother with more lube for now. He’s found a good angle, he thinks; years and years of hissed insults and rough hands and brutality on both their parts have been smoothed out and remade into something softer and new, but the memory is still there and just as Arthur knows all his tells and weaknesses, Francis knows just where to press and how to touch to have him writhing, begging for more with his body, if not his, unfortunately, more disagreeable mouth.

Not so disagreeable today though, as Francis counts the beats and looks for the pattern that Alfred’s falling into - _pinch, pinch, twist,_ **_bite_**. It’s not very easy, because America is anything but predictable, but he thinks he manages, finally. He doesn't do anything with it yet, just waits until _-yes, Alfred rolls one little nub in his mouth, twisting the other with perfect savage cruelty_ \- and thus Francis keeps his wrist angled and _thrusts_.

It works better than he could have hoped; England almost _screams_ , sharp and rough and his whole body spasms as he clutches America’s shoulders, hands slipping on sweaty skin. His head falls back, fine hair spreading out over the pillow like a halo, eyes half-open and unseeing, lips parted for a moan. 

America’s lifting his head; all wide blue eyes and _what the hell did you do_ followed shortly by _can you_ _do it again_ and France is only too happy to oblige. He even ducks down, settles on his belly so he can take Arthur’s cock into his mouth, sucking on the head - tasting bitterness made sweet by Arthur’s helpless cry and feeling the erratic flutter of delicate muscles around his fingers as he crooks them. 

It doesn't take long before Arthur stiffens, body locking up and his cries reaching a fever pitch as he climaxes. Francis considers swallowing, but decides that he’s been nice enough for one day and slides his mouth off Arthur’s cock with a wet sound, nudging it so that the whole mess ends up splattered over the stomach and chest of the one who was technically at fault.

A good portion of it gets on America too, but he doesn't seem to mind - barely notices, even, as he finally tears his eyes away from those piercings to stare with something akin to adoration, pressing his lips gently to England’s collarbone as the man goes limp, relaxing into a boneless heap on the mattress.

And maybe it’s that look of Alfred’s that makes Francis pause, but he doesn't immediately press the advantage, so to speak. He keeps his fingers still _-_ only two still, just two, buried deep inside the slick heat that he wants so badly to feel around his cock _-_ letting Arthur recover, instead of stretching him further.

 _I’ve gotten soft,_ he decides, pointedly ignoring one part of him that _isn't_ , thank you very much.

But he still tells America to fuck England first. (Well, technically, France asks him with feigned casualness: _front or back_ and America swallows, eyes going to England’s chest before he says _front_ and that’s that.) 

Francis shifts away to give him space to work as Alfred grips Arthur’s hips, and the wonder’s back, bright and warm in blue, blue eyes as he eases in and Arthur makes a raw sound, throat working and those green eyes hazy as he stares sightlessly up at the ceiling. He's delightfully pliant, body slack and loose on the bed as Alfred starts up a gentle rhythm, little more than an unrefined rocking of their hips rather than the rough punishing thrusts that Francis might have immediately lost himself willingly to. 

Perhaps the boy had more control than either of them had given him credit for. Arthur certainly wouldn't have been so sweet if it had been either of them insensate from drugs and pleasure under him.

But even their little saint had his limits, it seemed. Alfred’s hips were stuttering, his jaw clenched as he tried to keep that glorious strength in check. His next thrust knocks Arthur a few inches up the bed and drags the most _delicious_ moan from his throat and Francis’ patience reaches its end.

“Lean against the headboard,” Francis tells him, leaning over, a breathy murmur in one flushed red ear and America swallows but obeys. There's some awkward shuffling, but he manages without dislodging his cock and France counts the choked sound that England makes as the movement jostles him a bonus.

He's still trembling even after America settles down, a big palm cupping the back of his head and tucking his face into the crook of America’s neck. Pity that France can't see England’s expression, but he’s always had a vivid imagination and the play of muscle under the scarred skin of Arthur’s back is still lovely. He’s flushed there too, Francis notes distantly as he sidles over, presses in close until he can count the faint freckles that dot Arthur’s shoulders as he massages Arthur’s rim with slick fingers when he's stretched obscenely around Alfred.

He drinks in the shuddering gasp, doesn't relent even when Arthur shifts and squirms. America has to hold him steady, hands braced on slim hips so Francis can touch and coax and cajole until Arthur loosens for him and he can fit a single finger in.

It’s a good start. 

_Let’s see how much you can take, mon cheri._

* * *

England’s so fucking tight and France is pressing one finger in to join Alfred’s cock and he can't fucking believe it even fits. 

Arthur’s breathing out this ragged little half-sob, his spine bowing, arching back until his head’s knocking into the curve of Francis’ shoulder. He’s moaning, clenching down so  _ tight  _ that Alfred sees stars, can't help the instinctive, involuntary buck of his hips that drags another low harsh sound from Arthur.

“F-fuuuck, _mhm_ \-- t-too much...” He’s stuttering and gasping and his mouth is so bitten-red and swollen that America wants to kiss him even more, see how much of a mess he can make of his former mentor. Arthur’s slurred, stumbling and gasping and clumsy, but the fact that he can speak at all makes America wonder distractedly if the drugs were wearing off. Should they get him more? America doesn't want to move though because moving would mean he doesn't get to see the way Arthur’s lashes flutter, his flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen mouth. His eyes were wide and hazy and so, so dilated that America can barely even make out the green anymore.

England moans again.  _ “ _ I  _ can't  _ … can't,  _ nghhh- _ ” He chokes on a whimper when Francis shifts his finger, forces it away from Alfred’s cock, forces Arthur to stretch even further. Oh god. 

It takes America several tries to even form words. “D’you need us to stop, sweetheart?” He should be looking at England’s face, gauging if he was okay, but Alfred’s eyes keep drifting, up and down and to those god-fucking-damned piercings _._ His mouth feels too dry.

But Arthur’s still hard, his leaking cock trapped between their bodies, and Alfred has to pry his own hand off Arthur’s hip to wrap his fingers around the throbbing heat of him. Arthur cries out when he thumbs at the sticky mess at the head of his cock; a good kind of cry, Alfred thinks at least, the sort that begged for more without words. He rubs at the slit and Arthur makes it again, pushing his hips into Alfred’s grip and then down on his cock and France’s fingers.

Wait, fingers.  _ When did he - _

Alfred’s almost forgotten his own question by the time England responds, just a jerky shake of his head and a rasped  _ more.  _ But-

“You heard him, Alfred,” Francis says, cheek pressed to Arthur’s temple and pale blue eyes heavy-lidded. Alfred doesn't know what he does with his fingers, just feels the movement against his cock (and  _ god  _ that’s surreal, weird as hell and really, really hot) and then Arthur’s falling to pieces around them.  _ Please, _ he’s saying, again and again, raw and gasping, broken pleas that lilt off his lips like music.

France mouths at his ear, makes him shudder. “Please what,  _ mon amour?” _

It’s as soft and sweet as the way he’s gently carding the sweaty hair off Arthur’s forehead. Too sweet for what Alfred can feel him doing with his fingers.

“Francis,” he says weakly when Arthur doesn't seem able to answer, “maybe we should -”

“ _ Non _ , darling,” a strained smirk, white teeth flashing, “I would like -” those fingers  _ twist  _ and both Alfred and Arthur gasp “to hear him  _ say  _ it.”

He’s kissing along England’s jaw now, nipping lightly at him. “Go on,  _ Arthur _ , tell me. What do you want?”

It’s odd to hear England’s human name in that accent, that voice. New, but in a good way, Alfred thinks. It makes England shiver, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and god, but America wanted to do that, wanted to bite and mark him and -

“Bastard,” England finally rasps, and then, quieter, “fuck me.  _ Please _ .”

“I thought you’d never ask.” It’s a joke, almost, but Alfred can see the way Francis’ throat bobs, the way his breathing is too quick, same as the rest of them. The way his eyebrows furrow as he slicks himself up, the tremble of his hand where it’s curled around Arthur’s left hip, the one that Alfred isn't hanging onto himself because his hand feels like it’s fixed around Arthur’s cock, sweating and shaking and he can't move at all, barely breathing as he feels the head of Francis’ cock bumping up against his own at Arthur’s entrance.

England goes still too, except for the constant intermittent tremors that wrack him. Still and loose yeah, but he’s not relaxed enough for this. Alfred tries to help; he pushes a flurry of sloppy kisses over Arthur’s chin, whispers soft, soothing nothings into feverishly hot skin until Arthur finally snarls at him to  _ shut up _ . 

But he does go lax, because if England is motivated by anything, it’s spite, and it’s so quintessentially  _ him  _ that America does kiss him, a clumsy peck to the corner of his mouth as Francis pushes and  _ oh _ . 

It takes ages, or at least Alfred thinks it does. He’s lost track of time, it could have been five minutes or five hours of- of staying agonisingly still as England keeps gasping like he can't breathe and Francis inches his way in and both of them get snarled at by Arthur when they try to ask if he’s okay. 

France manages, finally and even he doesn't look put together anymore, sweat shining on his skin and his long, pretty hair hopelessly tangled and sticking to his temples as he exhales unsteadily and props his chin on England’s shoulder. “Ah,” he’s saying quietly and America wants to kiss him too, but his heart is pounding and it’s all too hot and too tight and now his hips are moving on their own, bucking up and knocking a hoarse groan from England’s throat. 

France breathes a strained laugh, eyes screwed shut and brows furrowed as he says,  _ patience please, dear Alfred _ but then he's moving too and America can - oh god. He can feel France’s cock inside England, rubbing against his own and the friction is so sweet that he’s gasping a little, hand flexing on England’s hip and he shouldn't, really, he knows his grip is too tight and there’s gonna be bruises all over England, like a map or something, marking out all the places he and France were. Somehow, that’s good too -  _ mark him, claim him, ours, he’s ours, ruin him for anyone else -  _

They're all moving and the pace never quite evens out, but it’s good anyway; two conflicting rhythms and England trapped in between and forcing them to match his. Francis knocks into Alfred’s hand when he goes to grab England’s right hip and ends up with his hand digging into England’s thigh instead. Alfred lurches forward to kiss - one of them, he doesn't really know what he’s doing, and almost knocks them all over and England breathes something that could have been a laugh or a curse.

It’s a mess and Alfred loves them all the more for it.

He tries to tighten his grip around Arthur’s cock, touch him the way he likes, but his hand seems to have gone numb and he’s fumbling, but Francis is working a hand in to help, their palms brushing and fingers tangling and then Arthur’s coming with a hoarse cry, warm and wet over their joined hands. And then America’s the one climaxing; the desperate clenching of Arthur around his cock pushing Alfred over the edge too, into free-fall and searing pleasure and the blissful crash afterwards. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

America’s exhausted and he wasn't even the one drugged to the gills and taking two cocks up the ass. 

After y’know…all _that_ , they’ve sorta just tipped over to lie on their sides, less by any actual verbal agreement and more because they’re all dead tired and unwilling to stay upright for even a minute more. England’s gone limp, still sandwiched between him and France, his legs around America’s waist and he belatedly remembers that _oh yeah, that couldn't be too comfortable,_ but France is already moving, his softening cock slipping out easily, and gently tugging England off America’s. England barely moves throughout it and America might've thought he’d already fallen asleep if his eyes hadn't been half-open, dazed and so very, very green. 

He's a - well. Alfred looks him over and even after that really, really good orgasm like, half a minute ago, feels fresh heat wash through him.

England just looked so… debauched. _Ravished_ , even, though the word kinda makes America feel like he's in an old-timey romance novel and that England’ll probably kill him for making him the damsel. (Besides, if this _was_ a romance novel, England would probably be the dastardly pirate, tying America to… to the mast or a bed or something, with his hat on crooked and that rakish grin on his pretty face as he leaned in close and - Er. _Anyway_.) America smothers a slightly loopy giggle and finally realises that Francis is, and has been, wrestling with the phone taped to the bedpost for the last minute or so with increasingly annoyed French cussing. 

Alfred would offer to help, but he's pretty sure that he won't even be able to sit up (how France was up and about and not, say, sprawled out in a puddle of gooey contentment was beyond him) and anyway, there's a sharp ripping sound and Francis was already stepping back triumphantly with his prize in hand. He clambers back onto the bed with, okay, a bit less than his usual fluid grace, good to know he isn't _totally_ unaffected after…everything, and Alfred turns his head to watch as he straddles England’s thighs and - 

“... I don't think that’s what Arthur meant when he told us to record this.”

“Oh, _mon cheri_ .” A lazy smile. Francis has a hand under Arthur’s chin, tilting his head so his blissed-out expression - all flushed cheeks and red lips and half-lidded eyes - is on full display as he snaps a picture. England bats half-heartedly at him. At least, that’s what America thinks he's trying to do; his arm barely makes it off the bed before flopping back. “If our _Angleterre_ didn't want me saving evidence of our _handiwork_ ,” he traces a slowly darkening bruise one of them must’ve sucked into the side of England’s neck and England shivers “-he wouldn't have asked at all.”

“The hell I did, frog,” Arthur mumbles - slurs really, his accent thick, but there's no heat in it and it’s only years of practice while carting him home from whichever pub he’d spent half the night in that allows Alfred to decipher what he’s saying. France is still taking pictures; a shot of his naked torso with more love bites starting to show up on that fair skin and those piercings (god, America should stop probably staring at them. He’d do that. Any moment now.) Then he’s shuffling off England’s thighs and. Um. “Are you recording this?”

Another smile, even wider than the first one as Francis turns the phone towards him and America tries not to cover up self-consciously. “If I am?”

Arthur manages to whack France this time, on the knee, with barely a fraction of his usual force. “Don't tease the lad, Francis.”

“Oh, aren't you sweet, coming to his rescue,” Francis says back, playful, and drags a finger through the cooling come on his stomach and lower, making England suck in a breath, eyes slipping half-shut when that finger grazes over the head of his cock. He doesn't reply and America tries to ignore the way his mouth goes dry when Francis turns England over (ignoring the spluttered protest) and spreads his cheeks to get a good look at the mess between his legs, easily pinning him down when he swears and squirms.

And it’s… just.

“Wow,” Alfred says quietly and doesn't even realise that he’s moved until his finger is swiping at the come leaking out of Arthur’s abused hole ( _so pink and swollen and pretty_ ) and the man is letting out a muffled gasp into the mattress, hips shifting like he doesn't know whether to press closer or pull away. But there's nowhere for him to escape and Arthur’s so loose that it’s easy; his finger slips inside like it’s nothing and his toes curl at the choked moan he gets. He forgets about the camera in Francis’ hand and just acts - pets Arthur from the inside, slow and gentle, as he kneads at the perfect curve of his ass with his free hand until Arthur’s gone all limp and shivery, hands fisted in the sheets and letting out these pleasured little _sounds_ at every shift of his finger.

Francis seems to have forgotten about the camera too; he’s just staring, blue eyes dark and mouth a little open and he jumps when Alfred asks if he should go on. 

“Oh, _mon amour_ ,” he says and then Arthur’s moaning again, high and breathless, as Francis works a finger inside him to join Al’s. “By all means.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So thoughts on frukus? idk I might write more if people like it


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